


Active Recruitment

by Chaotic_Smutty (Anna_Hopkins)



Series: Discord Prompt Fills [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Begging, Bottom Harry, Dark Crack, Dark Harry Potter, Discord: Tomarrymort, Gratuitously Hot Voldemort, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Technically underage, Top Voldemort (Harry Potter), somewhat cracky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Chaotic_Smutty
Summary: (Inspired by a prompt in the Discord.)Harry succeeds in casting the Cruciatus in the Ministry. He didn't expect that to result in a formal recruitment letter.





	1. Hook.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkkBluee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkkBluee/gifts), [Arualiaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arualiaa/gifts).



_Hatred rose in Harry such as he had never known before. He flung himself out from behind the fountain and bellowed "_ _Crucio_ _!"_

_Bellatrix screamed. The spell had knocked her off her feet, but she did not writhe and shriek with pain as Neville had -- she was already on her feet again, breathless, no longer laughing. Harry dodged behind the golden fountain again -- her counterspell hit the head of the handsome wizard, which was blown off and landed twenty feet away, gouging long scratches into the wooden floor._

_"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" she yelled. She had abandoned her baby voice now. "You need to /mean/ them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain -- to enjoy it -- righteous anger won't hurt me for long -- I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson --"_

_Harry had been edging around the fountain on the other side. She screamed, "_ _Crucio_ _!” and he was forced to duck down again as the centaur's arm, holding its bow, spun off and landed with a crash on the floor a short distance from the golden wizard's head._

_"Potter, you cannot win against me!" she cried. He could hear her moving to the right, trying to get a clear shot at him. He backed around the statue away from her, crouching behind the centaur's legs, his head level with the house-elf's. "I was and am the Dark Lord's most loyal servant, I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete --"_

Harry exhaled, slowly, settling himself a moment. So he had to _mean_ it, did he... Memories -- visions -- of Voldemort cursing his followers floated in his mind's eye. All term, he had wrestled with the emotions Voldemort sent across the link, whether or not he meant to -- all term, he had scrubbed himself raw when he woke to get rid of the traces of the _joy_ it inspired to cast the Cruciatus. If the trick to the spell came from that pleasure...well, Harry already knew what it was supposed to feel like, then.

He took aim. Smiled. Intoned, " _Crucio_ ," in a soft voice, sweeping himself up in stolen memories.

Bellatrix crumpled to the ground, and screamed.

His knees buckled a little, and he bit his lip against a groan, holding the curse as long as he could. He had to lean against the fountain, not because he was tired, but because his legs felt like jelly.

The moment didn't last forever. His scar began to burn, and Harry knew he would have to stop, before anyone reached the Atrium and saw.

He cut the spell off just before Voldemort appeared…

The next morning, Harry found himself in the Hospital Wing, in approximately the same position as when he'd laid down, which meant he hadn't dreamt of anything in particular. He was still reeling from the revelation of the _prophecy_ , the damned prophecy, that had started all of this; it hadn't quite set in yet, he thought, that Sirius was dead, that his friends were injured, that he was doomed. Harry found, quite to his surprise, that all those memories paled in comparison to the feeling of casting the Cruciatus, for the first time.

He fumbled for his glasses on the night table. Beneath them, he found, was a sealed envelope. Harry snatched both of them off the table, affixing his glasses on his face, and peered at the blue and purple wax seal, which was engraved with a stylized letter B.

Using his nail to pull up the wax, Harry opened it.

A strong whiff of perfume came off the parchment as he unfolded it. _Dear Harry_ , read an unfamiliar hand.

_Congratulations! You've managed to impress me. That Cruciatus was almost as strong as our Lord's, and on only the second try!_

_Oh dear darling Harry Potter, you should play to your talents. What would it take for you to switch sides?_

_With Love,_

_Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black_

_White Suites, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire_

_P.S. ~ Rabastan and Rodolphus say hello._

Harry blinked at the parchment.

Well, they'd said Bellatrix was mad.

He still memorized the return address, just in case, but crumpled up the letter immediately and stuffed it into his satchel where it leaned against the nightstand. The perfume clung to his nose, still; he wrinkled it, sickened, but recovered his expression just in time for Madam Pomfrey to check on him.

With some difficulty, he managed to ignore the glaring question of _why_ the witch would think him so easily swayed to their side. Over the next few days, he nearly managed to forget about it entirely.

Just in time for another letter, that is.

The second letter arrived in a larger envelope in the dead of night, and while it was sealed with the same wax and initial, there were two styles of handwriting on the parchment itself. Yet another strange salutation from Bellatrix Lestrange -- _A magical morning to you, doll!_ \-- and beneath it, a longer letter written in a neater, more masculine hand. Harry's eyebrows climbed into his hairline as he read the letter: it was a _formal recruitment letter_ , of all things.

There were three sections -- a description of the position being recruited for, a list of anticipated job responsibilities, and a list of benefits. Some of them looked quite good, actually, and Harry could see why this approach might have appealed to someone else, except for the job title: _First-Rank Death Eater_.

 _Harry Potter, Death Eater_. Harry snorted, and made to fold up the parchment and shove it back in the envelope. That was when another paper fell out, landing face-down on his bed. Harry picked it up, and turned it over; then he wrinkled his nose, disturbed.

Bellatrix, clad in very little clothing, waved at him from a moving photograph. This photo had to be edited, or taken from when she was younger -- it didn't look like the Bellatrix he'd fought in the Ministry, though he hadn't seen this much skin during the fight. In handwriting Harry was quickly beginning to recognize as the Dark witch's own, a caption read: _Additional Benefits Lie Within!_

Harry choked on a laugh. In the morning, he would justify his next action as him having been very tired and not thinking clearly, but in the moment, he wrote on the back of the photo, _Try Again - I Like Men_ , signed his name, and put the photo back in the envelope.

Honestly, that it was enchanted to return-to-sender was just ridiculous.

Harry came to regret responding at all when, in the morning post, he got a new letter. He dreaded opening it, and so hid it away in his satchel; once alone, he opened it, and gasped, which was really quite a reasonable reaction to a photo of two wizards lounging in a bed together, grinning suggestively at the camera. When he managed to tear his eyes away from the prominent bulges in the blue sheets, the caption read, _Rudie and Rabs are quite excited to meet you, Harry_.

He flushed a deep red. He hastily stuffed the photo in his trunk, and burned the envelope.

Of course, now that Harry had responded once, Bellatrix _kept sending photos_ . By the time the last week of Hogwarts term had ended, and Harry was on the train, he'd amassed a...collection...of more than a dozen photographs of Death Eaters posing seductively for the camera. He kept them in the spirit they were given, probably, and if he (ahem) _appreciated_ the images more than once, well, that was his business.

Naturally, the night he had returned to Privet Drive, he got another envelope. Harry justified his eagerness to open it as what Hermione termed 'classical conditioning'; he let his eyes rove over each of the three photographs, grinning to himself, until something moved in the corner of one photo and he gasped, nearly loud enough to wake his aunt.

 _Who is the wizard in the background of this photo?_ Harry asked, reluctantly sending it back.

The reply came in the morning, in the form of a letter, and another photo. Harry left the latter in the envelope while he read Bella's reply, and paled.

 _Why, Harry, my dear_ , the letter read, _that is our Lord himself, now that he is restored to his prime._

Pulse racing, Harry turned the photo paper over.

From a high throne in a dark room, red eyes glanced his way, and a dark smirk crossed an achingly handsome face.

He shivered, leaning back against the shed.

"Fuck."

Okay, okay, he was _tempted_.

Of course, now that Harry had shown a particular interest, he was promptly showered with images of the Dark Lord, which seemed to all be from a distance -- was this Bella's private collection? She certainly seemed the type. Harry would never understand how Voldemort put up with her fawning, but sweet Merlin, did he ever appreciate it.

Voldemort on his throne. Voldemort in his study. Voldemort in a field. Voldemort on a lounge. Voldemort at the long table Harry had seen several times in his visions. Voldemort by a lake at sunset. Harry began to actually reply to Bella's letters, now, when she asked after his health. His interests. His hobbies. His dreams.

Mid-July, she invited him to a 'recruitment ball'. No strings attached, Bella said. Harry had nearly forgotten that this was about recruiting him to the Dark. He'd been given a week to think about it.

About two hours in, he replied that he would be there. The idea of being in the same _room_ as the Dark Lord was suddenly highly appealing.

Bella wrote back so quickly Harry could see the stray ink splatter across the page. _Darling Harry, I am so excited to host you at the ball!_ She had included a Portkey for the evening of the thirty-first, which would bring him to her wing in Malfoy Manor three hours ahead of the start of the ball, where the three Lestranges would dress him up and, naturally, cover his scar as a precaution against getting hexed.

It was the twenty-fifth at the time. The six days that followed weren't nearly long enough for Harry to change his mind.

Harry barely managed to shower properly before it was time to go to the ball, but missing out on dinner at Privet Drive was entirely worth it, he thought. The Portkey deposited him, still slightly damp, in the middle of a large, opulent room with white walls and a curved ceiling. A hand Harry recognized as Bella's caught him by the arm before could fall. "Harry!" she cried, overjoyed. "I had worried you might not show up."

"I can't miss out now," Harry smiled, letting the witch guide him across the room to a large wardrobe, beside which stood the Lestrange brothers -- and yes, they _were_ just as handsome as in the photos. _Good Godric_ , Harry realized, _if the photos aren't edited, then -_ -

\-- that really _was_ the Dark Lord.

When he'd initially read 'three hours before the ball', Harry had thought, _there's no way I'll need that much time to get ready_ . He wasn't getting _married_ , after all. But between Bella's flights of fancy over different outfits, and two failed attempts to cover his scar before one material finally worked, they barely managed to tame Harry's hair into something un-Pottery. The last hour and a half was spent doing just that -- and was solved, surprisingly, by growing Harry's hair out longer and tying it back, a technique he'd never considered before.

So it was that Hadrian Black walked into the recruitment ball of Summer, 1996, sponsored by House Lestrange.


	2. Line.

Frankly, Harry had forgotten they were in a  _ manor  _ until he left the White Suites in Bella's retinue, and the walk to the ballroom took  _ fifteen minutes _ . Was it even a manor, or a palace, at this point? He didn't really know. They passed dozens of rooms: parlors and studies and closed suites --  _ this place is larger than Hogwarts, _ Harry thought.  _ It's got to be. _ Were it not Malfoy's place, he thought he might have been impressed.

Ah, right, 'Heir Malfoy' -- or as Bella referred to him, 'my Drakey nephey-poo', which Harry would absolutely be calling the boy when they were back in Hogwarts, assuming he survived this night.

"Darling Drakey nephey-poo," she crooned, tormenting Heir Malfoy as the blond greeted them at the high, broad doors to the ballroom. Harry managed to school his expression into one of polite interest at the last minute, using years of practice not laughing at Aunt Petunia's ridiculous pet names for Dudley, and greeted Draco with a perfunctory "Heir Malfoy." He let Bella lead him around the Great-Hall-sized ballroom after that, introducing him to people. There were Mulcibers, Rowles, Rookwoods, Selwyns, Notts, Carrows, Averies -- every household attending, evidently, had produced at least one witch or wizard his age or older, and was presenting them at the ball today.

Bella was introducing him as 'Hadrian Black', yet again, to the sponsors of a sandy-blond wizard named Wallace, when a chime sounded, and the ball went quiet. Even the musicians stopped playing. Harry turned his attention to the source of the chime, a raised platform in the center of the hall, and felt his breath leave him in an involuntary gasp.

"There he is," Bella squealed under her breath. Harry worried his bottom lip between his teeth, drinking in the sight of the Dark Lord in all his glory: he was even more beautiful in person, if that were even possible. He could almost live off just the sight of those sharp cheekbones, that perfectly arranged wave of dark hair, those  _ gorgeous _ red eyes --

(Unbeknownst to Harry, he and Bellatrix were making the exact same facial expression at the moment. It was really quite unnerving.)

"...duelling exhibition beginning at ten o'clock," Voldemort was saying in a low, melodic, captivating voice, his gaze sweeping the crowd. For just a moment, that smoldering red gaze locked onto Harry's own; he could have  _ swooned, _ were that not the exact sort of thing Bella would do, and he didn't want to embarrass himself like that in a crowd  _ no matter how tempting it was ugh _ \--

Then it moved on, and Harry glanced at the clock: quarter to ten. "Bella," he started to say, but she was already ushering him forward into the space before the platform, where many of the young witches and wizards he'd met were already standing. A white band appeared on his sleeve in a puff of mist, reading 'H B'.

"Should've known you'd be participating, Black," grinned Draco at Harry's left. It was weird seeing his rival smile at him, rather than sneer. "Aunt Bella's gone on and on about you all summer. Have you really cast the Cruciatus?"

Harry couldn't restrain the satisfied smirk that worked its way over his face, at the memory. "I have," he practically purred.

Silver ribbon flew into the air and began to twirl into the names of the first duelling pair. A Selwyn and a Nott stepped up to the platform, bowed, and got into their stances. When the signal sounded, they burst into a flurry of motion, spell-light flashing Missed spells hit an invisible barrier and faded.

It was mesmerizing to the very end -- when a sickly green curse took out the Selwyn witch. Harry took enthusiastic part in the applause, watching a healer counter the spell before bringing Selwyn off the stage. Each victor could choose whether or not to go on; it was an exhibition, not a tournament. The ribbon swirled into just one name for the next match, then two for the one after, and so on.

So it went; Harry began to divide his attention between the duel itself and the Dark Lord's expression watching it, taking note of when the man appeared especially pleased (usually when someone used a darker curse). It wasn't until the fourth match -- the first of two Carrows, and a Mulciber Harry recognized from the seventh-years -- when the first Unforgivable was cast: a rather effective Imperio, which promptly got Mulciber to walk off the stage. There was a loud snap as he fell the five-foot distance and landed badly, by which point the Imperius had worn off, with Carrow looking exhausted and jubilant; Harry's focus was more on the way the Dark Lord smirked, satisfied, at the successful curse.

On the heels of Carrow's victory, the ribbon wrote out,  _ Hadrian Black. _

"Do your worst!" shrieked Bella from the audience, clearly excited. Harry smiled fondly at the outburst, stepping up onto the platform.

Carrow had recovered by this point from the remaining fatigue of the Imperius; it was probably a newer spell for the witch. That or she wasn't especially powerful, and had more finesse than strength. Harry found he didn't care to wonder once the duel began: he threw himself into the fight, drowning out the sounds of the crowd in the rush of blood in his ears.

His repertoire wasn't especially Dark, compared to the others; a product of his upbringing, as Bella would say. In this moment, Harry regretted not knowing anything distinctive -- oh, right, he did, didn't he?  _ Do your worst, _ Bella had told him. He could do that.

Carrow hit Harry with the Expelliarmus, or something like it that made his hand sting a bit -- but Harry grinned, caught up in the moment, and stood from his duelling stance, rolling his shoulders. He summoned his wand back to his hand with merely a gesture, and fixed his gaze on Carrow, who had gone a bit pale. People in the crowd gasped, then cheered louder. He could make out Bella's voice in the cheering group, for a moment, before he returned his focus to his opponent.

Harry exhaled, sinking into that pleasurable trance he recalled from before, and intoned, lazily, "Crucio."

Carrow fell immediately to her knees, but didn't scream. Unconsciously, Harry's lips curled down into a pout; he glared at her disdainfully -- how dare she not scream -- and intensified it, licking his lips.

Eventually, the witch cracked; it could have been a second or a minute later. Harry sighed, delighted, and watched her writhing on the floor, nails digging into the platform; he was ready to hold the curse until the end, to lose himself in the satisfaction --

A gentle touch of a hand around his wrist broke him out of it. Harry let out a soft sound, and his arm fell. He barely registered Carrow staggering to her feet, the audience's cheers, or Bella's proud shrieking. He had turned to look at the person to whom the hand belonged, and found himself face-to-face with the Dark Lord.  _ Oh, yes, _ he almost moaned aloud, unable to tear his gaze away as Voldemort raised Harry's arm, denoting his victory.

There was no point in a second duel, after that, unless he was going to suddenly be proficient in the Killing Curse (though that might draw some ire, given the nature of his opponents). The Dark Lord had returned to his throne; Harry climbed down from the platform, letting Bella wrap him up in her arms and spin him around. "That was  _ wonderful, _ Hadrian," she cried, squeezing him hard enough to bruise. "Ooh, what if the Dark Lord assigns you to torture, with me? Wouldn't that be great?" She let go of him eventually, floating off toward the throne; Rabs and Rudie boxed Harry in and escorted him toward the buffet counter, to ply him with champagne in celebration, and then to one of the numerous sofas along the walls, sitting close on either side of him. Harry leaned back against the taut leather, resting his arms on the back of the settee.

The lingering haze of pleasure post-Cruciatus persisted with Harry's indulgence in the champagne, non-alcoholic as it seemed to be; he sighed happily into the sofa, not minding in the least the way the Lestrange brothers were eyeing him up and down.

"You positively reek of Dark magic," Rabs purred in his ear, letting his hand rest on Harry's knee.

"A most appealing cologne," Rudie agreed, pressing up closer to Harry's side.

Harry let out a little laugh, eyes glazed over. "Do I," he wondered, his voice low.

"Hadrie, darling," Bella cut in, approaching him with her usual manic grin, "come with me, come with me!" Harry let her pull him up from the settee and lead him by the hand through the crowd, through a side door off the ballroom and up to a closed door.

"Where are we going, Bella?" Harry giggled.

She patted him on the cheek, beaming at him. "The Dark Lord asked me to bring you here! He was oh-so pleased with your performance..."

Harry gasped. "R-really?" It was like a dream come true. He blinked away the haze again, this time for good, and mirrored her expression. "Then this is...?"

"Yes, he's in here! Go in, darling, go in! We'll see you later~!"

Harry straightened his robes a little, swallowing down his nerves. Then he knocked.

"Come in," called an utterly enticing voice from the other side.

The door opened onto a large office, illuminated only by the fireplace. Light glinted off polished wooden shelves along the walls, casting out over a fine rug in the middle of the floor. Harry looked around for a moment, taking in the large desk piled with books, scrolls and leaves of parchment to his right, the chairs on either side of the desk, and the large divan in front of the fire. Then he noticed the tall, striking silhouette standing in the center of the room, red eyes aglow. "M-my lord," Harry stammered, getting quickly to his knees. He wasn't sure of the etiquette he was supposed to be following here,  _ Bella hadn't told him, _ but he'd seen the Death Eaters do this so it had to be on the right track.

"Hadrian...Black..." Voldemort murmured, stepping closer. Harry could see his feet approaching. "You may stand."

Harry stood, biting his lip again as he averted his gaze. A cool hand came up to cup his cheek, startling a small gasp out of him. The Dark Lord's other hand took a light hold of his chin, turning his head to face him; Harry leaned into the hand on his cheek as he did, half-closing his eyelids. He'd imagined this, vaguely, but there was nothing like the real Voldemort in front of him.

"You have done very well this evening, Hadrian," the Dark Lord murmured, rubbing his thumb in circles on Harry's cheek. His other hand moved to rest on Harry's shoulder. If Harry could have seen himself, he might have been embarrassed at just how blissful he looked; as it were, only Voldemort was privy to the slow, lazy blinks, and the parted lips, and the utterly enthralled expression on the boy's face.

"Bella told me of your proclivity for the Torture Curse," he continued, voice lowering on the last two words into a sultry tone that had Harry weak in the knees. "I was very pleased to see it in person."

"Ah...I live to please, my lord," Harry breathed, cheeks heating.

"Do you now..." The Dark Lord stepped closer, effectively trapping Harry against the door, and tilted his chin up, pressing his lips to Harry's in a deceptively chaste touch.

Harry practically melted into the kiss, sighing happily as a hand guided him closer at the small of his back. The second kiss, his mouth opened to receive the Dark Lord's tongue; it was unlike anything he had experienced before. Harry moaned louder, letting Voldemort press him up against the door, and clutched feebly at the front of the Dark Lord's robes.

Fingers tangled in Harry's hair, untying the ribbon that held it in place; Harry shuddered, unable to help the way his hips ground down against Voldemort's leg. He gasped in air when the Dark Lord broke the kiss for a moment. "Ah...I'm..."

"To the divan," Voldemort breathed in his ear, and Harry let out an undignified squeak as he was summarily lifted and carried over to said furniture in three strides.

(Outside the door, Bellatrix was biting down on her fist to keep quiet -- sweet Salazar, her Lord had  _ pinned Hadrian against the door. _ The sounds her darling god-nephew was making were some of the most passionate she'd heard in a long while. Beside her, Rabs, with his ear pressed to the door, looked utterly envious.

If they were going to continue like this, there was no way anyone else would get to have the boy. Bella's husbands were clearly regretting not bedding him while they'd had a chance.)

Voldemort stood over the boy, drinking in the lovely expression on his enthralled face. When Bella had told him she would be sponsoring her nephew, one 'Hadrian Black', for the evening, he had not known what to expect; perhaps an unknown half-blood kept at home by one of her more eccentric cousins across the Channel.

He had expected rather little from such a boy, frankly; and then Bella had subverted his expectations entirely by bringing  _ Harry Potter _ instead.

Yes, it had been obvious from the beginning -- the Lestranges, for all their capability with disguise in other ways, had entirely forgotten their Lord was a Legilimens, it seemed. Voldemort had looked into the boy's lustful eyes, and known immediately. Perhaps he might have been angry, were it not for what he saw shortly afterward.

Harry -- or did he actually prefer Hadrian? -- had demonstrated exceptional duelling form during his match against Miss Carrow; and had made up for his (forgivably) limited repertoire with a perfect Cruciatus. Indeed, the Dark Lord had never seen any of his followers (or followers-to-be) cast the curse with such relish; the boy's face in the moment had mirrored his own, particularly when he increased the power to it, determined to get Carrow to scream.

It had enticed him, in a visceral way, to see the Light's Golden Boy stand  _ exultant  _ in the pain of another. He had shown no signs of exhaustion, either; had only let up on the curse because he stopped him. Voldemort had looked into his eyes again, when Hadrian's gaze met his own, and seen only  _ pleasure _ , only  _ joy _ , within him.

That was when he decided he would have the boy for himself.

He trailed a finger down Hadrian's chest, wandlessly unfastening the front of his robes as he went. So that flush  _ did _ go all the way down...

The boy threw his head back, gripping the sides of the divan. "My -- my  _ Lord _ ," he moaned, unreserved.

He could not have known how much it pleased Voldemort to hear that title so readily from his lips. Any true initiate would know not to call him  _ their  _ Lord until after the Marking; Harry's ignorance was a heady thing, truly.

Now, Voldemort knelt down between the boy's legs, trailing his fingers over the prominent bulge in the front of his trousers. "Delightful boy," he murmured, savoring the way Harry arched into the touch, breath hitching on a gasp.

He took his time removing the boy's shoes, socks, and trousers by hand and not by magic; it was just enough of a reprieve to get Harry's eyes open again, watching him with unconcealed desire. Bella must have dressed him from head to toe, Voldemort mused, because Harry wore a small black undergarment that most certainly did not belong to him. Or rather, it was far too  _ lewd _ to belong to him, especially now that it clung wet to the boy's twitching erection, outlining it entirely.

"Oh," Harry gasped, "oh, please --"

He hooked his finger around the narrow strap and tugged it down, excruciatingly slowly. The boy continued to beg so prettily, shaking with the effort of not thrusting his hips up to meet Voldemort's touch. " _ Please _ , my lord," he panted.

If the Dark Lord were any less restrained, he would burn the undergarment away and take Harry right there. As it were, he found a subtle metal fastening on either side of it, which was easily undone, and set it to the side.

He summoned a small cushion off of one of the chairs in the office, and used it to prop up Harry's hips. "I am given to believe," Voldemort murmured, "that you have done this before?" Surely the boy knew what to expect, if he were this wanton?

But, "Ah - I haven't, my Lord, I haven't --"

Normally, he would simply conjure oil for this. This time, Voldemort withdrew a small black jar from a pocket of his robes, and uncapped it, dipping a finger into the slick potion within. "You mean to tell me, that no other has touched you here?" He pressed a fingertip to the boy's puckered arse, rubbing slowly over the area, and was gratified by the way Harry flinched away from the touch without meaning to, crying out.

"N-no one, ah!"

Wondrous. "How you honor me, darling boy." Voldemort used one hand to hold the boy down at the hip while he slicked him up, working a finger carefully inside. "Bear down for me."

Harry did, without questioning him; he cast a surreptitious cleaning spell inside of him, for convenience, and began to finger him open, watching the boy's face as he did so. His title fell from Harry's lips in a litany of need, over and over again, stuttering as he added a second finger; yes, this was the most exquisite pleasure Voldemort had yet tasted, in the years since his resurrection.

And...were those tears, welling up in Harry's eyes? "Please," the boy sobbed, "I -- my Lord, please --"

He twisted his fingers  _ just so _ , finding the place inside Harry that would please him the most -- and Harry screamed, hands coming up to cover his face as his back arched. The sight sent a coil of heat straight down, and Voldemort was abruptly aware of the pressure of his robes against his growing tumescence. It was tempting, terribly tempting, to feel the boy tight around him; but he waited, anyway, and coaxed Harry up to the very edge.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Voldemort purred, and the boy didn't even register the use of his name, it seemed, he was sobbing out his title again.

"Y-yes, ple-ease, my  _ Lord _ , I'm --"

Another press to Harry's prostate, and he was coming, cock untouched; spattering white all over himself. Again, Voldemort was tempted: he could work Harry through it, until the pleasure turned to pain. He could watch the tears fall, could savor the boy's agony --

"Oh, my darling," he breathed, impressed. "You're still hard, aren't you?"

His boy's eyes had glazed over, his chest heaving as he panted. His arms had fallen back to his sides, fingers digging feebly into the leather of the divan. His thigh spasmed as Voldemort crooked a finger inside him again, not-quite-rubbing the sensitive gland this time.

"Will you be good for me, Harry?" he wondered, and smiled at the emphatic nods he got from his boy, who had lost the capacity for words at the moment.

"I'll...I'll be go-od," Harry slurred, and sweet Salazar, his voice was already so hoarse. If he lost his voice entirely during this…

Voldemort stifled his own gasp at his boy's words, and began to work a third finger inside of him, as though he were going to fuck him properly.  _ Not yet, _ he told himself,  _ not yet... _

Ah, but he wanted to, more and more the longer this went on. Harry clutched desperately at the furniture, the lingering scent of his Dark magic washed out by sweat and sex, and under Voldemort's careful ministrations, soon came again, clenching around his fingers in the most pleasurable of ways.

"Mm..." he attempted to speak, and Voldemort withdrew his fingers for a moment to give his boy some reprieve, noting with great satisfaction that he was still half-hard. Harry recovered his words after a longer interval this time, sucking in air in heaving breaths.

He did not call Voldemort his Lord again, as had been expected. No, it was even better.

"M- _ Master. _ "

"Oh," the Dark Lord gasped before he could stifle it. "Oh,  _ Harry _ , say that again."

"Master," his boy cried. "Master...please..."

Oh,  _ Salazar _ . Voldemort could feel his self-control fraying. Still, he resisted the urge to fill his boy, by some thread of restraint, and used his fingers instead. His other hand wrapped around the base of Harry's wonderfully persistent erection, starting a slow rhythm that had tears welling in Harry's eyes again. How many times could he make Harry come, at this rate?

Like this, he could feel every tremor that ran through his boy's body; all too easily, he could imagine the twitching, needy muscles squeezing him, could imagine spilling himself deeply into Harry, and the more he thought about it, the more he  _ wanted  _ to, the more he  _ needed  _ to.

"Come for me," he groaned, and his boy was obedient, his boy was coming, his boy was calling for him again.

"Yes, Master," Harry cried, "yes, yes --"

The fire had burned down to a low flame, just above embers; Voldemort admired the glistening of the diminishing light on the mess of ejaculate that coated Harry's stomach up to his neck. It was not bright enough, he decided, to please him, but he would not interrupt the moment by calling a house-elf. Instead, he summoned red light into the wall sconces, and divested himself of his outer robes, revealing the black suit underneath. He unfastened his necktie, watching his boy regain himself, and gave in to the inevitability of fucking Harry after all.

"My Harry," Voldemort purred, "how you entice me...testing every ounce of my control..."

"Master," his boy sighed, so lovely in the red light. He was watching quite attentively the way the Dark Lord removed each layer of his clothing, eyes following the movement of his hands down the buttons of his waistcoat, then his shirt. A sharp intake of breath from his boy graced his ears then, as he unfastened his trousers. Yes, it was time, after all.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he told him simply.


	3. Sinker.

The words didn't register in Harry's ears for several minutes, so hazy was everything with the pleasure he was feeling. But the sight of Voldemort stripping in front of him had Harry's cock at attention, no matter how many times he'd already come.

And then.

"I'm going to fuck you now."

Oh  _ Merlin _ . Yes.

"..please," he gasped, suddenly shaking with anticipation. The Dark Lord had unfastened the front of his trousers; the way he was kneeling over Harry, he could see the outline of his erection very clearly against the fabric. When Voldemort took himself in hand, exposing that swollen, blood-dark cock, it took Harry's breath away.

Then his view was cut off: the Dark Lord was leaning closer, pressing his chest to Harry's, boxing in his head with his elbows on either side. All Harry could see was the man's eyes, now, so close to his own.

"My Harry," he breathed, and the heat of it fanned out against Harry's lips, just before he captured Harry's mouth in a hungry kiss once more.

Voldemort tasted so  _ good _ . Harry couldn't place the specific flavor, but he could barely think enough to wonder in the first place. His arms came up around the Dark Lord's back, digging his nails into his shoulder blades. Then he felt the blunt, hot pressure against his dripping, aching hole.

"My  _ Lord _ ," he moaned into the man's mouth, teeth grazing the Dark Lord's lip as he pulled away to gasp for air.

After the first three orgasms (Harry realized he  _ had  _ been counting), he'd thought there could be no higher pleasure than that of the Dark Lord's fingers. It was exquisite agony to be proven wrong: it was --  _ ah  _ \-- it was even better like this, with Voldemort driving slow and deep into him. Harry couldn't think, couldn't feel, beyond what he was feeling now; this sublime pleasure of being stretched, being filled, being --

"Gonna break me," Harry slurred out, "feels so -- hahhh --"

Voldemort silenced him with his tongue, again, working himself into Harry with precise, almost violent thrusts that produced sounds nearly as obscene as what was coming out of Harry's mouth when he was able to speak. He clung onto the Dark Lord for balance, feeling as though he were falling backward, down and down and down --

"My darling," Voldemort growled, when they next broke for air, "I will -- hah -- break you a hundred times, and never tire of it." His hands slid down to grasp Harry's legs, moving them up so his knees were over the Dark Lord's shoulders, and then went back to supporting his weight as he began a punishing rhythm, one that drew cries from Harry's throat on every thrust.

"So tight," he was muttering, voice full of praise, "pulling me in, nngh," every small sound the Dark Lord made was getting Harry hotter, closer to the edge. " _ Harry _ ," he groaned, "Come for me, do it, do it --"

Harry's nails scored lines over his back as he seized up, clenching hard around Voldemort's cock. He fancied he could feel the moment the Dark Lord came, too, spilling deep into him with a sharp exhale and a stuttering of his hips. They lay there, unmoving, for just long enough that Harry recovered sensation below the waist, and then started again.

Oh, he  _ burned  _ for this man, for this feeling, and coming had only  _ fanned the flames. _ "Master," Harry cried, barely aware of the words passing hips lips, " _ more _ \--"

Voldemort had not pulled out of him, after coming; every renewed thrust in was pushing fluid out. It was a hot, sloppy mess, more erotic than it had any right to be. Their chests pressed together, slicked up with the mess of cum that coated Harry's skin; his cock throbbed, aching, against his stomach, pressed between them, and the added stimulation was going to --

"Again," Harry choked out, almost impressed at how quick he'd been. How the Dark Lord was fucking him so hard, for so long, without getting tired was a mystery, and a miracle.

This time, though, the Dark Lord didn't stop fucking into him when he came. The pleasure was building, building, and it  _ hurt _ , it was too much --

He sobbed, struggling, and only managed to grind his hips down even harder on the next thrust. It made Voldemort's breath stutter; he stilled, pulsing inside Harry as the motion brought him to his own orgasm. "Ha-rry--!"

It was unfair, entirely unfair, that the sound of his name being moaned was getting Harry hard  _ again _ . He almost never got this far when he was just wanking himself. Harry wiped ineffectually at his face, groaning.

"Ah..." the Dark Lord moaned against Harry's neck, "I can't -- I can't go on, Harry, it's too much --"

" _ Please _ ," Harry begged him, rocking his hips up. Voldemort's breath caught in a sound not unlike a sob. Harry shivered from head to toe at the noise, and did it again, clenching around him.

Oh, Merlin, yes, he really  _ was  _ sobbing. Harry leaned up to kiss the Dark Lord, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, working him through it with every downward thrust of his hips. "Come for me," Harry whispered, tugging at his hair.

And Voldemort came, shuddering, with a cry so beautiful that Harry felt his balls seizing up to follow him.

(Bella was on her knees at the door, fingers interlaced with Rudie's as they listened. Neither of them had ever heard their Lord like  _ that _ . He had never been reduced to begging -- what had Harry  _ done _ ?

She glanced at her husbands; at Rabs where he sat with his hand over his mouth, flushed like a schoolboy; at Rudie barely keeping himself together; and staggered to her feet, nodding toward the ballroom.

They'd...they'd heard enough.)

Harry felt strangely bereft, as Voldemort eased himself out of his arse. The Dark Lord was still breathing heavily; Harry could hear his heart thumping madly in his chest, nearly as loud as Harry's own. Their limbs trembled as they gradually changed positions, until Voldemort lay beside Harry on the divan with one arm hanging over the edge of the cushion, and Harry lay flat on his back.

Harry traced a line in the sticky, drying fluids on the Dark Lord's chest, smiling softly. He was beginning to come down from the high, now, he thought. Some of the things he'd noticed and ignored in the moment were coming back to him: specifically, the fact that Voldemort had been calling him Harry almost from the beginning.

He found, surprisingly enough, that he wasn't afraid. "My Lord," Harry murmured, snuggling closer. "Would you really keep me?"

In answer, a cool hand slid down Harry's stomach to stroke him into hardness, just one more time. Harry lay a hand on the Dark Lord's arm, feeling the shifting of muscle under the skin as he gripped him tighter, brought him up to the edge.

"I would keep you always, my darling boy," Voldemort whispered in his ear, thumbing at the slit in a way that made Harry's toes curl. "Wondrous creature. Come for me, once more, before the night is over."

Harry keened, thrusting up into the Dark Lord's --  _ his  _ Lord's -- sticky palm. Voldemort licked a stripe up the side of his neck, leaving a kiss mark just under his ear. As he came, for a seventh and final time, the man's other hand closed lightly around his left forearm.

" _ Morsmordre _ ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DarkBlue's original prompt:
> 
> _Voldemort sending Harry Death Eater recruitment and introduction pamphlets. Looking at the Benefits package, Harry is sorely tempted to join._
> 
> Originally livewritten from 6/17-6/21.


End file.
